


Keep Yourself Warm

by coffeeat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Darkness, Fluff, Gen, Pocket!Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeat221b/pseuds/coffeeat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shrunk to five inches by a drug and on the run, a consulting detective secretly moves into a surgeon's flat for safety, only to find that his world is far from ordinary or safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiter, There are Drugs in my Coffee

_I can't breathe._

That was the only thought that ran through the detective's mind. Just a single, insistent phrase that shoved everything else out of sight. It chased him around, haunting him with its despair. Just a handful of simple words that had danger lurking within it.

_I can't breathe._

A heavy cloth was pressed against the detective's face. It prevented air from rushing into his burning lungs. Sherlock Holmes gasped for breath, wrestling with the cloth that twisted around his limbs. His bonds felt loose, and he could tug at them, but they still tangled around him. They restrained him and threw him into a mad frenzy of freeing himself. 

_I can't breathe!_

His brain never failed to remind him of his crisis. He struggled and kicked, counting down the precious seconds he had left before he passed out. His hand suddenly broke away, free. He quickly yanked the cloth from his face, wheezing. Purple. His entire world was stained with a very pale purple tint. Unnatural. Something was wrong, extremely wrong. Time was running out. Sherlock needed to escape. Heat slammed through him, wrapping around his body very tightly. Too hot. It was much too hot. Sweat poured from his face as his eyes darted around. A glimmer of light caught his attention-an escape. He quickly crawled towards it, sticking his head through the small gap. Cool oxygen soothed his overheating body, rushing into his lungs as he gulped it in. He choked it in, wriggling all the way out into the open air.

Collapsing onto his bottom, Sherlock turned his head to study what had nearly killed him. His eyebrows raised at the sight. "A shirt," he scoffed. It was a purple shirt. An extremely large one, sprawled across the mattress he was sitting on. That had been the cause of all his trouble? It wasn't nearly as bad as being threatened by gunpoint. Or dangled from the edge of a rooftop. But really? Nearly suffocated by a shirt? The more he studied it, the more familiar it appeared. It looked like his.

"But why is it here?" he mumbled to the silence. His breaths slowed down as he sucked in the cold air. For some reason, the bed looked bigger than normal, as if it had been stretched out to form a large piece of land. And Sherlock was sitting on the very edge of it. His gaze floated around the room, and his brains made deductions. The sudden changes of his world quickly caught his attention. The entire room appeared as if it had been magnified. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suddenly feeling very small. He didn't like the feeling. It teased him relentlessly, poking him in the sides and causing him to flinch.

_Flinch?_ Sherlock Holmes never flinched. His head turned away from the sunlight. The bothersome, bright rays were streaming in through the thin curtains. His lips parted slightly as his gaze ran over the room. He glanced down at himself, only to see that his clothes were gone. His skin was as pale and bare as the full moon embracing the dark sky.

And then an idea struck him. His memories. They would tell him what happened. His mind began to replay last night's events. As he watched the silent movie of him walking around in the flat, nothing stuck out. Nothing unordinary or out of place. In his mind, he saw himself pause before flopping onto the bed. He had fallen asleep in ten seconds flat. He stopped the movie. His eyes flickered back to the large shirt. He sat very still for a few seconds before the realization slammed into him.

"I shrunk," he muttered, and he blinked. It wasn't that hard for him to believe. With a flurry of wings, excitement fluttered in his chest. It pecked at his ribcage, demanding to be released. He ignored it, leaping up onto his feet. His hands raked through his messy curls as he paced around on his bed. Back and forth in a crooked manner. He was dancing a strange waltz by himself. The soft mattress slightly gave way underneath his feet as mutters escaped his lips. He ran snapshots of yesterday's events through his head.

"Drugged," he said. The drugs couldn't have been inserted through his nicotine patches - they were tossed about in his desk drawers, untouched. He had skipped all his meals too, so it couldn't have been found in his food. "What else-" He froze, his eyes widening as he stared at the white wall. It gazed back at him with concern.

"The coffee!" Sherlock hissed. Flashes of the memory ran through his mind. He saw his hand curling around a cup of black coffee with two sugars at a café; it was the only thing his stomach had received. A drug that caused him to shrink. There was no doubt that there was a plan carefully laid out. Who would go through all the trouble to slip a drug into his drink? His fingers pressed into the sides of his head as his eyes squeezed shut.

"Think, Sherlock!" the detective ordered himself. "Think!" His fingernails began to dig into his skin. Tiny buds of pain popped up underneath the sharp pressure. He would be more vulnerable since he was smaller. His enemy wanted him to be weak and easily caught-

A floorboard creaked downstairs. His thoughts froze in his mind, and his eyes slowly opened to stare at his closed bedroom door. A few seconds ticked by before a small smirk lifted his pale lips. They were already here. The world shot forward, and the bedroom watched in awe as the detective sprang to life.

"They're here to play a game of stupid," Sherlock exclaimed, darting towards the bedpost. "And it looks like they're winning." His fingers grasped the slippery wood. It was smooth from years of slender fingers rubbing along it. Without wasting a second, he swung his legs off the mattress and slid down the post. His bare feet lightly thumped against the wooden floor as he safely landed. 

Another creak came from downstairs.

Quiet. They were trying to lower the volume of their noises-like mice, creeping along and hoping not to wake up the sleeping cat. Sherlock was the feline, carefully watching them from the shadows of his world. Watching them try to trap him in his slumber. There was only one flaw in their plan: he was already wide awake. There really was no need for them to be quiet. The man yearned for excitement, to feel the thrill of the chase smashing through his veins. He thrived on danger. How horribly he had missed living in it!

He scrambled up the chest of drawers. Yesterday's cup of coffee still sat on top of it. All he needed was a few drops of the liquid to test. Rushing over to it, he carefully took a sample. He paused to listen to the creaks of the footsteps, figuring out they were slowly advancing in the direction of the stairs. He shook his head at their slowness. He spotted his handkerchief crumbled nearby. He grabbed it, ignoring the stains on it from his previous experiments. He wrapped it around his shoulders to cover himself, tying a knot around his neck to keep the fabric in place. His fingers carefully tucked the sample into the knot, pinning it in between the cloth and his warm neck. It would have been nice if his clothes had been shrunk too.

He walked over to the window. It was still open from last night, when he had paused to gaze at the sleeping city-to rest his watchful eyes upon London and guard it from danger. The morning breeze slipped into the room to greet him. It ran through his dark messy curls with gentle fingers, sliding around to whisper into his ear. It paused to press its bitter lips against his cheeks. The sensitive skin stung from the passionate kisses. Scrambling up onto the windowsill, Sherlock ignored the breeze's greetings. He eyed the fall he would have to endure. He tossed a glance back at the bedroom.

"What's taking them so long to get here?" he whined, impatience pricking at him.

A loud thump exploded on the staircase. A tense air tightened through the flat as a few seconds stiffly wobbled by. Sherlock stared at the door, his ears straining to pick up any small sounds. And the silence was abruptly smashed. Heavy footsteps crashed up the stairs towards the room-there was definitely more than one man after him. _Took them long enough,_ he thought, jerking his attention back to the awakening city. Excitement flooded through him as the thrill of being chased tingled within his limbs. Rapid calculations and ideas of escape raced through his mind. His tall, slender frame squeezed through the crack in the window.

"Yes," he mumbled as he determined the safest way to fall. "Yes."

As Sherlock stepped out onto the edge, the wind intensified. The cold air whipped at his handkerchief, causing it to flap behind him like a cape. Honking and endless chatter swirled around the loud city, and he stared down at the people hurrying along the sidewalks. The bedroom door slammed open behind him. The doorknob collided with the wall. Sherlock took a final step forward. His foot met with empty air, and he tumbled through the rough winds of London.

For a brief second, the great detective was flying. The whole world slowly faded away until it was only him, lost in the moment of weightlessness. He stared at the rising sun, the fingers of light reaching out to catch him. They caressed him with their warm glow, basking him in a gentle shower of yellow. The man was soaring through the sky, free of all the heavy burdens of the world. The breeze followed him and caught him in the air.

For a few lovely seconds, Sherlock Holmes was invincible. But all too soon, gravity seized him, yanking him down from the breeze's embrace. The moment was ripped out of Sherlock's hands, and reality tore him open. And the world shot forward once again, returning to being cold and uncaring. Sherlock kept his eyes wide open, despite the urge to close them. Bitter air blasted at his eyeballs, and he felt tears pricking at them. His arms spread out as if he was flying, but he was not. He had been stripped of his wings. He was a flightless bird, tumbling through the stinging air. The streets clambered up to meet his body, and he could imagine splatters of blood staining the sidewalk. 

He slammed straight into a bag resting on a bench. He rolled off and flopped into the thick blades of grass, a little stunned but unharmed. His plan had gone well-better than expected. Time ticked by, already wriggling out of the detective's hands. He struggled to save the precious seconds by reacting as quickly as possible. He shook himself out of his dazed state. Stumbling up onto his feet, he dashed down the sidewalk and charged straight into the morning crowd. He weaved around the tangled mass of wet shoes and long legs, pushing in the opposite direction they were going. A sharp heel slammed down near him, barely missing his head. He leaped out of the way before a businessman's mud-splattered loafer could kick him. As Sherlock maneuvered through the moving maze of shoes, shouts rang out from behind him. He took the risk to glance back, and he saw the crowd beginning to part. People were fleeing out of the way like frightened sheep being herded by yapping dogs.

Here they come, Sherlock thought, increasing his speed. Adrenaline rushed through his veins as an insuppressible grin broke out on his face. If he could get to Scotland Yard, the Detective Inspector would help him. What's his name? he wondered, attempting to recall it. All he knew was his last name: Lestrade.

Or Molly Hooper, who worked at the morgue . . . she would be of some use. He could barely tolerate her constant stuttering and frequent blushing, but she enjoyed helping people. At times, he thought of her as a people-pleaser, always scurrying about and doing favors for them. He would never understand. What he did understand was that she fancied him. Her pitiful advances annoyed him, but he used her crush on him to his advantage. A little flirting here and there was sure to warm her heart, and she would do as he told her. He was bloody rubbish at handing out compliments, but Molly didn't seem to mind-any kind word from him instantly flustered her. It worked like a charm. 

_Yes,_ Sherlock decided. Molly it is. He rushed in the direction of the morgue. After all, it was closer than where Scotland Yard was located. Molly would be able to safely get him to Lestrade, and the little shrinking problem would be sorted out.

The yelling behind Sherlock faded as he pressed deeper through the crowd. For once, he was glad that so many people lived in his area. Now, he had to figure out a way to reach the morgue. It would be too hard for him to go by foot. His attention latched onto a young woman pushing in the direction he wanted to go. He eyed the small purse hanging from her shoulder. He'd be able to fit in there. Hurrying towards her, he leaped up and seized the bottom section of her long, red coat. It reeked of medicine and sickness. He resisted the urge to gag as he climbed up the folds of her coat. Now, if he could reach the purse . . .

His hand strained towards the strap. He nearly lost his balance, and he recovered before slowly reaching out again. His fingers finally caught on the strap, and he tightened their grip before swinging himself onto the top of the small bag. Shoving the zipper open a little, he squeezed through the small opening. He slid in, safe from the piercing stares of London.


	2. A Sleepless Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock meets a lonely surgeon.

Sherlock didn't know how long the woman planned to continue walking. He kept an eye on their location by poking his head out once in a while. They were now in a very quiet street, still heading in the direction that the morgue was in. A huff of impatience blasted from his lips. His head of messy curls ducked back into the bag. It was swinging back and forth in gentle motions, being bumped around by the woman's movements as she walked. It reminded him of the pendulum, forever trapped behind the glass case of the grandfather clock. Trapped in the chest of the timekeeper, the heart of its being. He shifted around in the bag. The faint hint of peppermint stung his nose.

The woman was a doctor. But she had nothing interesting in her bag. Just dull and ordinary items. Disgust twisted his face. He had spent the last few minutes, deducing the crap out of the woman. Too bad he wouldn't be able to tell her of his findings. He drew his knees to his chest, sulking by a stick of unscented deodorant. Earlier, he had ripped open a package of biscuits in the bag. The cookies were nearly as big as him. He had nibbled on some of them for strength. They left a bland taste stained on his tongue. 

At the memory of the food, he rested his hand on his shrunken stomach, which was now uncomfortably full. He had never eaten so much before. Normally, he wouldn't have been able to take more than a few meager bites before he grew irritated and bored. His horrible eating habits had left him underweight and very skinny, but not on the brink of starvation. _I bet Mycroft would love to give me some of his fat,_ he thought. A smirk pulled on his lips at the memory of his plump brother. Mycroft Holmes had plenty of blubber packed in his stomach. Sherlock often enjoyed teasing him relentlessly about his failed diets. While Mycroft ate food for enjoyment, Sherlock only consumed it to survive.

A few more minutes of silence crept by. The woman's boots crunched on loose rocks, occasionally treading over dead leaves that the wind hadn't picked up yet. Sherlock could hear her heavy breaths staining the bitter air. He imagined thin clouds floating out of her mouth, smoke drifting out from a dragon's nostrils. _I could use a cigarette right about now,_ he thought, the mental image reminding him of his tiny addiction. His eyes scanned his surroundings before they focused on some nicotine patches. _How fortunate._ He helped himself to one, slapping it onto his arm. It was so big that he could have wrapped it around his body . . . he could become a human burrito. But maybe it wasn't such a great idea. He was smaller now, which meant a normal dose would kill him. He peeled off the patch with reluctance. His loose skin clung to the sticky glue in protest. It was pulled along with the patch for a few seconds before releasing it. He pushed the dose of nictone away from him. Sherlock could have the stubbornness of a donkey, but he was not stupid.

Sherlock perked up a little, noticing that the woman had stopped walking. Voices filled his ears. One soft and delicate, crumbling like a warm, fragile pastry. The other was harsh and cutting with a threat slicing into his words. The woman was talking to a man. The detective froze for a second, his ears picking up the conversation and feeding information into his mind. He would've been able to deduce the man more easily if he could see him. But he forced himself to stay put, not wanting to risk being seen.

_He's going to steal the bag!_ he realized.

Suddenly, the bag jerked, causing Sherlock to be flung off his feet. He flew through the empty space and smacked his face into the other side. A high-pitched shriek pierced his ears, followed by running footsteps. Disoriented and confused, the detective struggled to stand up, but he found himself squashed into one corner by the speed the purse was flying at. Every time he attempted to find his balance, it was quickly snatched away from him. He kept tumbling and falling until he eventually gave up, curled up on his side.

_No, no, no!_ Sherlock inwardly groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. This couldn't be happening! What was worse was that the thief was running in the opposite direction of the morgue. Alarms rang through his brain. Ideas dashed around, screaming to be acknowledged. He shot all of them down, and they crumbled in their cold blood. Red splattered the walls of his mind, and everything was covered in violence. Death. Uncertainty. Being five inches had plenty of disadvantages. And then a small idea crept up to him. Whispered the prospect in his ear. He perked up, immediately taking interest. _Jump out of the purse,_ was the suggestion. There was little chance of survival though, especially since the thief was in such a hurry to escape. But I am indestructible, he reminded himself before deciding it was the best choice. If he had a sharp blade, he would have been able to cut a hole in the side of the bag. But he didn't, so he would have to leap out.

Sherlock tilted his head towards the top of the bag. He could see a bit of light coming through the gap where the zipper had not closed. Pursing his lips, the detective struggled up onto unsteady feet, swaying from the constant bumps. His hands grasped the soft cloth on the sides of the bag, hoping to keep his balance. Poking his head through the opening, he squinted into the heavy blast of winter's breath. He didn't recognize the area they were in, which made him more anxious to get out. Squirming out the rest of the way, Sherlock stared at the speeding road below him.

_You are indestructible._

Sherlock breathed in ice and the thief's thick cologne before he leaped off of the bag.

~*~

The landing hadn't been as graceful as Sherlock wanted it to be. His foot throbbed with pain, and a few bruises sprawled across his legs. They glared up at him, clinging to his skin and nibbling down into his bones. He limped through the empty streets, concealing himself in the shadows whenever someone walked by. He avoided the streaks of light falling across the ground, allowing the darkness to mask his face. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted and recognized. 

He was lucky enough to have stumbled upon discarded dolls. He had stolen their clothes from them. The suit he was now wearing made an excellent change in his appearance. The sample of the drugged coffee was bundled up in the old handkerchief, carefully deposited into his pocket.

"What now?" Sherlock wondered out loud. Returning to his old flat was out of the question. He was not stupid, unlike most people these days. He needed a place to stay, preferably one that had lab equipment. He wanted to restore himself to his natural height. Then, he could search for the criminal behind all this.

Heavy footsteps came up behind him.

He quickly pressed himself into the darkness, stiffening and waiting. A loud thump filled his ears, and he turned to see a large backpack resting on the sidewalk. His gaze flickered to the owner, who was busily flipping through a planner. _Formerly in the military,_ he deduced. _He suffers from lack of sleep, probably because of nightmares . . ._ He ran the information through his head, nodding a little. He spotted the man's name written out on the planner. The name "John Watson" was scribbled out on the cover in barely legible handwriting. _He is a surgeon who lives alone._

Alone. It was perfect for Sherlock. The less people in a house, the more likely he would be safe. He didn't plan on staying in the stranger's place for long. This was more or less a temporary solution until-

Wait. What was he thinking? He wasn't even sure what he was doing. Hesitation filled him as he stared hard at the stranger. Could he truly trust him? What if he was discovered? What would happen then?

John Watson suddenly stiffened, his gaze falling upon the watch embracing his wrist.

_He's going to leave soon!_ Sherlock realized. It was clear that there was no time for questions. He trusted his deductions, and this man seemed safe. He sneaked closer to the backpack, keeping an eye on the male as he did so. When his movements went unnoticed, he dove into the side pocket of the bag. He had already deduced that it wasn't used very often.

Sherlock squirmed around in the tight space. The heavy smell of food filled his nose - probably what this bag was filled with - but his pocket was clean and free of dirt.

He sat and waited for John to pick up the bag.


	3. Black Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John's nightmares are alive.

Standing in the middle of an empty sidewalk, John narrowed his eyes at the planner clutched in his hands. He had gotten it out to see if he needed to do any shopping. But the sight before him pushed all thoughts of groceries out of his mind.

Appointments crowded the boxes marking the days of the month.

"Damn," he muttered. "This is bloody awful." He barely had any time for himself, and he still wasn't used to it.

Time. There had been plenty of it when he returned to his world from the war. Or what remained of his world. His sister hadn't been willing to let him back into her life. She said he had hurt her so badly when he left. She never wanted to feel that pain again. He ended up renting a flat in London. Over the next few months, he had done his best to piece his world back together. He had failed though. Dullness. Emptiness. That was all he had felt in his quiet little days. Most of the broken bits of his life still littered the floor. He never bothered to fix them or sweep them up. They were just left there to gather dust. Now, with his current job, he found himself plucking up every free moment he could scavenge from the chaos breaking out. The life of a surgeon demanded all of his attention and energy. He never failed to return late in the evenings, too tired to cook. Chinese takeouts and leftovers had been his dinners for as long as he could remember.

John glanced up at the darkening sky. The clouds loomed over him, fat and pregnant with snow. Maybe they would release their loads tomorrow morning. It wouldn't be good for the streets though. He didn't want to get into a car accident on the way to work. It was getting colder. How frozen he felt . . . Picking up his bag, the surgeon plodded along, following the sidewalk that led him to his flat.

There was a nagging emptiness inside of him. He couldn't ignore it. It was a large, gaping gash in his chest. He did his best to bandage it up every morning. Applied a little salve. Maybe took some painkillers for it if the pain got too bad. No one ever commented on it-probably because they never realized its existence. He would painfully shuffle around at the hospital every day until the sun began to set. By the time he dragged himself home, the bandages binding his chest would already be falling off. And he would let them crumble, falling off his deteriorating frame in the darkness of his flat.

John was good at his job. He made an excellent surgeon. It was funny how he could fix other people's gashes and wounds. But he could never seem to fix his own-the gaping hole in his chest.

It was almost completely dark by the time John arrived at his flat. He let himself in with the key, pushing open the creaking door. His fingers ran along the rough walls before they closed around the light switch. The light was flipped on. The dull yellow spread through the room, chasing away the darkness. The shadows retreated to the corners, digging deep into the floor and staring at him. They were waiting for him to sink into bed . . . waiting . . . the light could never get rid of them for some reason. They were like stubborn bits of dirt that no one could pry out.

"Good evening," he said to the empty flat. It ignored him as he trudged through the living room, abandoning his bag on the floor by the couch. He disappeared into the kitchen to order takeout from the nearby Chinese restaurant.

The pocket of the bag stirred as the surgeon's footsteps faded away. A few seconds later, Sherlock cautiously poked his head out. His ears detected the faint mumbles of John ordering his meal. Dinner. Sherlock hadn't eaten for days. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed food. Maybe he could sneak into the kitchen later.

₪₪₪

A nervous breath slipped out from John's lips. His empty plate sat before him, the glass stained with salty soy sauce and food smears. But he made no movements to get up. His eyes were fixed on the darkness lingering in the hallway. Once the sun fully set, the shadows from the corners would always cluster outside of his room. They knew him too well, perhaps even better than he did. They anticipated his every movement, crouching in hunger and drooling. Their lustful eyes followed his movements. They longed to latch onto him, strip him of his strength, and sink their fangs into his skin. He tasted good. At least that was what they told him last time. John knew they thrived on his fear. They showed him a blood-red teacup once. It was small and delicate, like a fragile flower. It had a tiny crack dividing one part of the rim, like a split lip.

"Look inside," they had suggested-only, it wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

He had peeked inside and seen a puddle of a thick, black liquid staining the inside of the cup. They told him it was his fear. For every droplet of sweat pouring down his forehead like tears, a drop of terror would be added into the teacup. Every moment his heartbeat increased from anxiety, the liquid would accumulate. Every single time his screams pierced the air, the cup would be filled. In that moment, fear had clenched his heart and caused his entire body to freeze. Horror slashed through him as the puddle slowly spread out in size. Until the black liquid was overflowing, tumbling out from the rim and oozing out onto the sides of the cup.

"Black tea," they called it. "Doctor Watson, do you fancy a cup of black tea?"

His throat would close, and he would never be able to choke out a reply.

"Oh, I think he'd like one," they said. They always cackled as they said it. It was laughter ripped out of their mouths, squirming around like oily black rats. "He does like his tea dark. Don't you, pet?"

And he would watch in terror as the cup filled up to the brim.

John wriggled out of the grasps of the horrid thoughts, scurrying back into the safe folds of the evening. He swallowed hard, dropping his gaze to the empty plate. He knew exactly what lay in store for him, every time he retired to bed. The old teacup would be sitting on his nightstand, waiting to be filled. He lowered his head. It felt so heavy, as if it would snap off his neck. His bones wouldn't be able to withstand such pressure. What if his skull just rolled onto the floor, tumbling away and leaving his headless body slumped in his seat? With the image pressed in his mind, John rose from his chair. He took the plate to the kitchen to wash it. His movements were robotic, carrying out the motions of the familiar routine. He found himself free to think as he squeezed a thin stream of soap onto the sponge. A few tiny bubbles spurted out and floated in front of his face. He didn't bother to swat them away as he slathered soap onto the plate.

He thought about pulling an all-nighter. It was the same idea that returned to him every evening. He knew he could never bring himself to agree with it, but he still entertained it. At least it provided him with some good company for a bit. Glancing towards the living room, John caught a glimpse of the idea perched on the edge of his armchair. It was gazing at him with a hint of sympathy. The corners of John's lips pulled up a little. They soon faltered, as if it hurt to smile.

"Relax," he told the idea. It could never stay still-always insisted on keeping an eye out for the dark shadows.

"Pull an all-nighter," it suggested. "You don't need to sleep."

John ignored it. He finished cleaning the dish and returned to the dining table. The leftovers from his meal were scooped into a container to serve as tomorrow's lunch. It meant he wouldn't have to eat the hospital food. He wrinkled his nose, and his tongue dried at the memory of his earlier lunch. He abandoned the leftovers in the cold stomach of the refrigerator.

The idea was departing by the time John had finished clearing the dining table. It never stayed long with him. It stopped by every evening to offer him an escape, which John never accepted. But it would be gone before night to avoid being ensnared in its cold trap. It would always abandon John. he wanted to plead with it to stay. His fingers itched to grab its sleeve and pull it back into the flat. They could settle in the armchairs and talk. Stay up. Make it through the long hours of the night world. And together, they'd emerge into the warm fingers of the glowing sunrise. They could stare down at the awakening London and know the shadows were gone for another day.

But John knew the idea would never stay.

"Once the night falls, you're on your own," it always said. "It's every man for himself, John. No one takes care of you in this world . . . you have to do that yourself."

"You're not a man!" John wanted to shout at the fading idea. "You're just another thought in my head."

It didn't matter. The idea always departed, no matter what John did. So John followed the idea down the hall to the door. It always twirled something around in its hand as it left. A teacup, a black umbrella, a human bone . . . it was different every time. Today, it was a dark blue scarf. The items were always so strange and unordinary. He watched as the idea opened the door. Cold blasted in through the crack, and shivers ran up the surgeon's spine. The idea began to step out before hesitation caused it to pause. Its shoulders tensed, and it stood very still for a few seconds.

John's lips trembled. "Stay," he pleaded, breaking underneath the increasing tension.

The idea ignored him. "Good night, John," it said quietly before the door clicked shut. Soft footsteps padded down the steps before darting into the streets.


	4. A Deadly Foe (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock meets his greatest enemy.

The staircase creaked under the surgeon's feet.

Sherlock listened carefully to the sounds of John preparing for bed. His ears caught every creak, every thump of John's shoes. All the noises of the world had suddenly grown louder. It was harder to ignore them. Impatience prodded at the detective. The large flat was pleading for him to explore it, to deduce every square inch of it from the ceiling to the floor. It was an important task for him since he'd be staying here for a while. He also knew there was a lab here too. Earlier, his nose had detected a faint splash of chemicals on John, masked by a light spritz of cologne and shampoo.

A shiver of anticipation skated up his spine. He was itching all over to just go to the lab and run an experiment. But he needed to wait for John's snores to fill the flat. He squirmed into a more comfortable position.

₪₪₪

A sigh laced with nervousness quivered from John's mouth. His fingers rested on the light switch, poised to click it off. He was clad in his sweatpants, ready for bed. But a strong hesitancy paralyzed him when it was time to turn off the light. He closed his eyes. I'm leaving it on, he decided, leaving the light switch alone. It wasn't the first time he had slept with the comforting glow pulsing through the room. It did nothing to prevent the nightmares, but at least he felt a bit saner when he jolted awake. He crawled onto the bed, the mattress remaining stiff and unmoving under his body. He was used to sleeping on hard surfaces. However, the long years of turmoil were taking their toll on his body. He was beginning to wake up with aching muscles. He'd have to trade his bed in for a softer one. He could see the small signs of aging in him, and he hated it.

"Old man," the children would giggle on the days he had to use a cane. He would put so much of his weight on it that he was afraid it would snap one day, along with his temper. "He's an old man."

"Guess what?" John whispered to the memories, tugging his blue duvet over his bare chest. "I don't give a @#!*% ." His eyes slipped shut as he nuzzled against the soft coolness of his pillow. It felt like a nice cold hand, its fingers gently running along his face and soothing him into sleep. Lost in bliss, John failed to notice the faint, watery outline of the shadows' teacup on his nightstand.

₪₪₪

Sherlock's footsteps echoed against the countertops of the lab. It was perfect, even though the room was small and filled with very little equipment. However, Sherlock would make do. He paused to inspect the gadgets, tracing his hands over them. His fingers pulled away, free of dust. Well-used. The surgeon probably came in here after returning home from work.

The detective folded his hands behind his back. He leaned forward a little, studying an empty test tube. He wondered what business John had, puttering around in this small lab of his. He didn't seem like the experimenting type. Sherlock knew the other male was eager to reach the end of his workday before hurrying home to collapse into his armchair. Surely, he wouldn't dare do more work in the comfort of his home? Then again, the flat seemed to provide little comfort to John.

The test tube's clear glass showed Sherlock's reflection. He tried to ignore it, but it kept catching his attention from the corner of his eye. "Look at me, won't you?" the reflection seemed to say, a cold grin burned onto its pink lips.

Sherlock obliged, transferring his gaze to the other man behind the glass. "What is it?" he demanded, contempt deep in his voice. It cut into his voice like razor-sharps of ice.

The grin on the other face only widened. "Oh, you're glad to see me," he purred, his eyes sliding half-closed. "Admit it, Sherlock."

Sherlock remained stoic and unmoved. "Stop," he told him. "Get to the point-oh wait." He paused for a few seconds, as if contemplating the moment. "There is none," he concluded bitterly. "Get out of my sight."

Silence heavily stained the air before the man behind the glass spoke again. "You know, you can't stay here for long."

"And why not?"

"John will kick you out," was the answer.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. This man was treading on dangerous territory. "No, he won't," he said. "He's a kind man, as much as I hate to admit it."

"He'll find you." A threatening tone throbbed behind his voice.

"Not if I keep hidden."

It was the other man's turn to narrow his eyes. "You can't hide forever," he declared. "One day, you'll break. And then the world will see the true you . . ." His hand gestured to himself, his dark eyes glittering with malice. "They'll finally see me," he whispered.

Sherlock felt his body stiffen, betraying the deep fear he had buried in himself. _No. You stay there!_ he silently ordered the feeling. He was Sherlock Holmes; he was not allowed to fear. Straightening to his full height, he hissed to the man, "Get. Out."

A smirk hardened on the male's lips. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," he murmured. "You seem to forget I am your reflection. I'm you." His hand reached out to rest on the wall of glass separating them. A chuckle bubbled up in his throat, and he let it roll from his tongue. "I can't get out," he said, "because I'm already inside of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read these chapters, darlings. I apologize for any mistakes in them - I write them all at midnight (just because I can).


	5. A Deadly Foe (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which comfort is given.

_He's inside of me._ The man was trapped inside of him, banging around in Sherlock's mind and waiting for the day he would be released. Sherlock had locked him inside and hidden him from everyone, not wanting them to know who he really was. Because once they saw the true him, they would all run away. _Freak. Freak._ The word pounded inside of him, refusing to release him from its clutches. _Freak! Freak!_ It screamed at him as he slammed his hands over his ears.

"Sherlock," he heard the man inside of him whisper. "Sherlock, I'm waiting." He was already squirming inside of him, doing as much damage to Sherlock's body as possible. He was flowing in his veins, poisoning his blood and killing him.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut until it hurt. He tugged at his remaining ropes of strength, grasping them in his fingers. "No," he said in the firmest tone he could summon. His eyes fluttered open, and he used the ropes to bind the man. He yanked the knots as hard as he could, not caring that he was cutting off the blood circulation. "Not today. You're not escaping today."

Pain flashed across the other male's face, and he gritted his teeth, straining to keep a crazed grin locked on his face. "You're right," he wheezed as Sherlock pulled at the ropes. They were wearing thinner every time he used them. "Today is not the day." A cough rattled his chest as Sherlock roughly released him, taking a step back and staring at his work. "But someday."

"No," Sherlock retorted, marching him through the mind palace. He went into the deepest part of his mind, all the way at the back where a very dark room was. Grasping the male, he shoved him through the door and bolted it behind him. "Never!" he shouted. "You're never coming out!"

And he felt his true self almost smile. Just a simple twitching of the lips before they settled back down again. "Mr. Holmes, you're not indestructible," he said.

A response never came from Sherlock because a loud scream shattered his concentration.

=~=~=

Silent tears trickled down John's face. His lips were parted, strange noises scratching at the back of his throat but never fully making it out of his mouth. The war veteran was crying in his sleep again. But this time, he wasn't alone.

From his perch on the nightstand, Sherlock stared at a weeping John. The surgeon's head had slipped off onto the mattress. His arms tightly squeezed his pillow as if it was the last thing binding him to earth. As if he was soaking in comfort from it. Shivers seized his body as more tears ran down his weathered cheeks. He curled up into a despondent ball, pressing his face into the duvet. Sherlock's empty gaze noted the agony twisting his face. His eyes ran over every crease and groove folding his skin. John was a crumbled paperback, pages wrinkled and torn from abuse and rough hands. He would fall apart one day and fade into nothing but a memory.

The detective had rushed into the room in time to be greeted with another loud scream. He soon realized the surgeon was suffering from a nightmare. Now, he was observing John, silently watching the series of emotions twisting and unfolding on the sleeping man's face. He considered nudging the man awake, but he decided it wasn't worth it. He preferred not to lose a limb in the process.

John snuffled, rolling over onto his side and facing Sherlock. The detective froze, not expecting to be so close to his face. He could feel the other male's shaky exhalations blasting his face, heating up his cheeks and causing warmth to pulse around him. He could hear a silent plea drift out from between the lips with every breath, soaked in nightmares and sweat. The surgeon inhaled, but Sherlock only heard a raw scream for help. An exhalation followed, but the detective's ears were filled with pathetic sobbing and soft whimpers. And before Sherlock came, John's pleading died by itself in the silence. There was no one to hear him. To wipe the sweat and tears from his face. To prod and shake him until he finally woke up in the cold stomach of the night.

A tiny flame of mercy burst in the detective as he stared down at the frightened man. A weary sigh slipped out from his lips. He knew what he had to do. "John," he said in a firm tone. "John, wake up _now._ "

Silence met his order.

"John," he said a little more loudly, still clinging onto the remaining trickles of his dignity.

A whimper trickled out from the other man. Frustration slammed into Sherlock. Why wouldn't the man just wake up? Thrusting away his pride, Sherlock yelled into his face, "John Watson! _Wake up._ " His fingers snapped into a fist, and he slammed it hard into the surgeon's cheek. The flesh sank underneath the hard force, and he felt his knuckles crash against the hard bone.

The war veteran jerked to life, his eyes snapping open. He quickly scrambled up into a sitting position, his chest heaving. Sherlock quickly dove for cover, tucking himself behind an alarm clock. After a few seconds, he cautiously poked his head out and watched John. The man was staring wide-eyed at the blank wall, his fingers crumbling the duvet in his tight grip. Finally, John gathered himself together, his movements slow and unsure. Shoving the covers to the end of the bed, he swung his feet off the mattress and stood up. A few seconds crawled by before he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.


	6. Invincible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock runs into more trouble.

The next morning, John wasn't okay.

From his bed in the mouse hole, Sherlock could hear the surgeon's grumbling and sleepy sighs. The man was bustling about in the kitchen, brewing a cup of tea. As the detective listened, a tiny snort erupted from him. Tea seemed to be the answer to everything for John.

Sherlock had never made it back to his hole last night. For the remainder of the dark hours, he had sat on John's nightstand and watched him sleep-not because he felt sorry for the man. He wanted to grab the opportunity and unearth more information about him. So he poured over his deductions for the rest of the night. When the alarm clock warned him it was three in the morning, he crept back to his mouse hole.

Outside, a dark blanket still enveloped London in its silent embrace. But the surgeon was up and about in the brightly lit kitchen, preparing for a long day of work. John was usually awake before anyone else, unless if it was the weekends. That was when he slept in and caught up on lost hours of sleep. Unfortunately, it was only Thursday. But for Sherlock, it was "Take-Pocket-Sherlock-To-Work" day. The small detective planned on accompanying John to his job. He was certain the hospital would have plenty of supplies and drugs. The problem was fetching them without attracting unwanted attention. He'd probably have to make several trips.

Turning up the collar of his black coat, Sherlock strolled towards the entrance of the mouse hole. Glancing around to make sure the coast was clear, he darted towards John's bag, leaping into its pocket with a dramatic flourish.

~*~

The automatic hospital doors slid open, and John barged through them. A faint red stained his cheeks as heavy breaths were yanked out from his mouth. He had gotten trapped in a bloody traffic jam on the way to work, and the fear of being late pounded into him. His hand yanked his phone from his pocket, and he tossed a glance at the clock on the screen. The thin, elegant numbers blinked at him reassuringly. He was right on time. The surgeon's tense shoulders relaxed. Pocketing his phone, he hurried up to the front desk, where the nurse was stationed. _Dammit,_ he thought, recognizing the woman's face as he got closer. Tina Swezol was working the morning shift. Contempt balled up in his stomach as he approached her, his shoulders stiff.

Tina's gaze was plastered to the computer in front of her. Her fingers poked at the keyboard, slowly connecting with the keys and pressing them down. As John stood in front of her, she gave no acknowledgement of his presence. She kept typing, ignoring him. John restrained a grumble, knowing that the nurse had seen him. She liked to find little ways to cause annoyance to prick at him. It was a little game they had going on for a few months now-she'd bother him, and he'd restrain his irritation. 

Nearly a full minute passed before Tina opened her mouth. "Good morning, John," she greeted him, her tone flat and empty.

"Hello," the surgeon muttered. "I need to sign some papers . . . Sarah said you had them ready for me?"

The clacking of the keyboard was the only response he got for a while. Finally, the nurse paused, turning to a stack of files and grabbing the top one. Without bothering to make eye contact, she shoved it at him.

John grabbed it without thanking her. "I need something to write with," he added.

She muttered something under her breath before her fingers scooped up a pen, chucking it at him. His reaction was quick, his hand shooting up and catching it in mid-air. An insuppressible smirk twisted his mouth as he opened the file. Flipping through some papers, he scrawled his illegible signature in the appropriate blanks. He clicked the pen closed and thrust the file across the desk, tossing the writing utensil on top of it.

A few seconds of silence ticked by. "Ta," John finally said.

Her head of messy red curls nodded with hesitance, but Tina still refused to look at him. He turned away and headed deeper into the hospital.

"Have a nice day, Dr. Watson," she robotically recited, returning to her computer with an eye roll.

~*~

Impatience nipped at Sherlock as he squirmed in the pocket of John's bag. They were finally moving again, probably heading towards the surgeon's office. He poked his head out into the open air, his multicolored eyes taking in the white walls and long corridors. _I need to get out of here,_ he realized, knowing John's office wouldn't have any useful supplies. A loud, clattering sound filled his ears. He jerked his head to see a nurse rolling a cart next to them. On top of it was a metal tray, carrying small vials of liquid drugs. Stained with odd colors, the fluids splashed on the inside of the sealed bottle. They threw themselves against the plastic sides in desperate attempts to escape.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the labels, squinting at the words scratched on the white surfaces in black ink. His attention latched onto one of the bottles - exactly what he needed. His head nodded in approval. Without wasting another second, he crawled out of the bag's pocket and dropped onto the top of the cart as it squealed by.

He landed with a soft clang on the tray. Luckily, the squeaky wheels and the rattling vials covered up his landing. Shoving his body underneath a cloth next to the tray, he sat down to prevent himself from losing his balance. His fingers lifted the edge of the scratchy fabric, just in time for him to glimpse John disappearing into his office. Noting the room number, he tucked it away in his mind for later and dropped the cloth. Sherlock felt the cart take few more twists and turns before pausing. The squealing of door hinges pierced his ears before he heard the nurse softly greet someone. _A patient,_ he thought, his shoulders tensing. The cart was shoved forward. He almost tipped over onto his side. He scrambled for balance until the whole ride screeched to a full stop.

"Be right back," the nurse called, a false cheerful tone plastered to her voice. The door slammed shut, cutting off her sentence.

Sherlock sat still for a few seconds before slightly lifting up the cloth. He saw that the cart was parked next to a hospital bed. White sheets were stretched over a motionless female, odd lumps and bulges poking out from underneath it. As he observed the bedridden patient, he noted the thick casts clamped around her legs and left arm. They nearly acted like restraining handcuffs. Thick bandages were wrapped around her face, leaving only the eyes visible. Her dull brown pools were wandering around the room, focusing on each object for a few seconds before moving on. She looked like a mummy, wrapped up and ready to be laid in a sarcophagus.

_She's useless,_ he thought as relief fluttered through him. He wouldn't have to risk being caught by one of her hands. He fully crawled out into view. Turning his back on the female, he crossed his arms against his chest and eyed the drug he wanted. Only, it was no longer next to the other bottles. Sherlock's eyes darted to the side to see it sitting on the nightstand.

"Dammit," he growled, frustration slicing through him. He didn't have much time left before the nurse came back. The best choice seemed to be leaping onto the bedside to reach the bottle. He could then shove the bottle onto the floor before rolling it back to John's bag.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rose. A prickling feeling crawled up his spine. The consulting detective quickly whirled around, and his eyes locked with the patient's large ones. His body immediately tensed, but he managed to swipe his shock off his face. Ideas swarmed through his mind as his brain screamed for him to do something.

_Leap out of sight! Knock out the patient!_

_No, Sherlock, you git. Be reasonable. You're five inches tall, and this woman is-_

"Hallucinating," the patient whispered.

Sherlock stared at the female as her eyes fluttered shut.

"Not again," she whispered, a hint of sadness floating in her tone.

A second flew by before the information sunk into Sherlock's brain. _Oh, yes,_ he thought, careful to keep quiet. Taking a few steps back, he focused his attention on the buttons fixed to the side rail of the hospital bed. It would provide a safe, firm surface to land on. He pulled in a huge mouthful of oxygen before madly dashing forward. His legs pumped as he charged towards the edge, never taking his eyes off of his goal. His shoes met the end of the cart, and he shoved off, soaring through the empty air stained with the heavy smell of medicine. His foot stretched out, straining to meet the side rail and land safely. Gravity rapidly yanked him down, and it was all happening too quickly, much too fast for him. What if he couldn't make it? No, he had to. He had calculated the angle of the drop after jumping, and he would land safely. Would he? Would he really? What if he was wrong-

_Don't doubt yourself. You are invincible. Invincible._ The word banged at him, shoving through his doubts, and searing itself into his mind.

"I'm so invincible!" he wanted to shout.

And his foot landed onto the edge of safety.


End file.
